


Wings & The Way Down

by there_must_be_a_lock



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Awkward Flirting, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:47:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29529396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: Spencer chokes on nothing, and somehow he makes things even worse by asking shrilly, “Are you flirting with me?”Derek grimaces. “If I say yes, am I gonna get punched?”“Like it’d hurt you even if I did.”“Then yeah,” Derek says sheepishly. “I was flirting with you.”Spencer stutters for a few incoherent seconds before he recovers from that particular world-ending shock. Then all he can say is, “Oh.”
Relationships: Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid
Comments: 18
Kudos: 94





	1. Thursday, January 2

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a Ray Bradbury quote: "If we listened to our intellect we'd never have a love affair. We'd never have a friendship. We'd never go in business because we'd be cynical: "It's gonna go wrong." Or "She's going to hurt me." Or,"I've had a couple of bad love affairs, so therefore . . ." Well, that's nonsense. You're going to miss life. You've got to jump off the cliff all the time and build your wings on the way down.”

“Checkmate.” 

“Yeah, I thought so.” Spencer examines the board and frowns before movement catches his eye. 

Gideon is pointing out where he went wrong, but Spencer isn’t paying attention any more. Losing to Gideon isn’t a particularly novel or interesting experience, and there’s something — some _one_ — much more interesting walking into the park. Spencer crosses his legs, shifting on the bench to rest his elbows on his knees, and watches. 

It’s cold for Vegas, 60ish and breezy, but the guy is wearing short sleeves like this isn’t his usual January. New in town? But Spencer hasn’t seen anyone moving in. Visiting family for the holidays, maybe. He’s got the look of a newcomer: carefully cultivated confidence, studied swagger covering for the unease that always comes with foreign territory. 

There are other things, too, things that Spencer tries _not_ to notice: biceps rippling under the short sleeves, long skilled fingers spinning a basketball idly as he walks, a bright white flash of a grin when he sees Spencer staring —

Spencer is staring. Crap. 

He looks down at the chessboard much too quickly — there’s no way it comes off as anything other than guilty. He glares daggers at his bishop as Gideon clears his own pieces away.

“Rematch tomorrow?” Spencer offers, trying to keep his eyes on the board. “School doesn’t start until next week.” 

“Can’t tomorrow, going up to the cabin. Call you when I get back.” 

“Sounds good.” 

Spencer sneaks a stealthy glance, only to see the guy grinning in his direction, and he averts his eyes again, blushing furiously.

Gideon barks over his shoulder, “See you soon, Doctor Reid.” 

The nickname makes Spencer smile at Gideon’s retreating back, but then he looks down at his lap and remembers he’s sitting criss-cross applesauce, wearing his fraying Converse and his mismatched socks — one covered with yellow dinosaurs, one argyle. He sighs to himself. Gideon treats him like an adult, but most people sure as hell don’t, and Spencer can’t exactly blame them. 

“You wanna shoot some hoops?” the stranger calls out, and Spencer doesn’t look up, because he’s obviously talking to someone else, except…“You in the Chucks! Pretty boy!” 

That makes Spencer look up _fast_ , because he assumes it’s sarcastic; it’s the sort of stupid thing the jocks at school might yell, right before they ask him if he wears women’s underwear, or something. There’s no trace of malice on the guy’s face, though. His smile is so bright it’s hard to look at. 

Something warm and awful curls in Spencer’s stomach. 

“I don’t really — I don’t _do_ hoops,” he mutters, averting his eyes again. 

The guy takes the seat opposite his, sprawling out, taking up space. Spencer hunches in on himself, poking at the beginnings of a hole on the faded knee of his favorite jeans. 

“I could teach you.” 

“Given my lack of hand-eye coordination, I really doubt that,” Spencer tells him, which gets a laugh; eyes sparkle, a dimple creases his cheek — he smiles with his whole face. 

“I’m Derek. Derek Morgan.” 

Spencer raises one hand in an awkward wave. “Spencer. I’m — Reid’s my — Spencer is me. That’s my name.” 

_Yikes_. 

“You from around here?” Derek asks, twirling the basketball on his fingertip, showing off casually. 

Spencer nods and then blurts out, “You’re not. Morgan — is that like the Morgans on Lake Road?” 

“Sure is. That’s my auntie and uncle. I’m staying with them for a bit.” 

“That’s roughly zero point three miles from my house,” Spencer tells him, but when Derek raises his eyebrows, he remembers that walking around aimlessly, memorizing the names on every mailbox because you can’t stand being at home, is not a normal childhood pastime. He continues hurriedly: “Where are you from?” 

“Chicago.” 

That makes sense. He’s _cool_ in the way that Spencer would imagine people from big cities to be. He seems… _jaded_ isn’t the right word for his smile, but experienced, maybe. Sophisticated. Comfortable in his own skin. Sure of himself. 

Everything Spencer is _not_ , basically.

Also, Spencer is staring again. 

“Do you like it here?” he asks. “It must be… different.” 

“That’s an understatement. Toto, we are _not_ on the South Side any more.” A shadow of sadness flickers over Derek’s expression for a moment, like a cloud across the sun, before he smiles again. “It’s good, getting a change of scenery. You know?” 

Spencer doesn’t know, because he’s never been farther away than California, but he says, “Yeah.” 

He tucks his hair behind his ears and then picks up his castle, turning it over in his hands just for something to do. 

“I’ve never actually played chess, but aren’t there supposed to be more pieces?” Derek asks. 

“Gideon likes to use his own pieces, I like to use mine,” Spencer tells him. It’s a sensory thing, for him; he likes the feel of the warm ivory, and Gideon prefers his own heavy stone set. 

“Gideon?” 

“Professor Gideon,” Spencer amends, wondering how to explain that. “I… took a class with him? At UNLV. That’s sort of how we met, but… we play chess.” 

That’s the short version, anyway. 

When Spencer decided to find a cure for schizophrenia, at the age of fifteen, he started by reading everything the local library had on the subject. When he was done there, he started sneaking into the college library. Gideon was the first person to realize Spencer wasn’t a student, but he didn’t call security; instead he offered to let Spencer audit one of his advanced psychology classes in the evenings. Spencer has taken _all_ his classes by now, and Gideon jokes about him earning his Masters before he finishes high school. 

“Want to show me around the neighborhood?” Derek asks, and Spencer blinks at him for a second. 

“You were going to play basketball.” 

“Sure. But you said you don’t ‘do’ hoops.” Derek gestures at the empty court. “Nobody else to play with. Playing with myself gets boring.” He laughs at his own joke, and then his eyes sparkle, devilish, as he says, “I’d much rather play with you.” 

Spencer chokes on nothing, and somehow he makes things even worse by asking shrilly, “Are you _flirting_ with me?”

Derek grimaces. “If I say yes, am I gonna get punched?” 

“Like it’d hurt you even if I did.” 

“Then yeah,” Derek says sheepishly. “I was flirting with you.” 

Spencer stutters for a few incoherent seconds before he recovers from _that_ particular world-ending shock. Then all he can say is, “Oh.” 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. If I was wrong about — if you’re — _do_ you?” 

He cannot possibly be asking what Spencer thinks he’s asking. 

“Do I — play for that team?” he ventures. Derek shrugs, and Spencer can barely _breathe_. It feels like he’s paralyzed for a second before he can croak, “That’s not — you’re not wrong.” 

“Just to be clear, we’re not talking about basketball any more.” Derek is grinning again. He has a _really_ nice smile, and Spencer needs to stop staring already. 

“Yeah. We’re clear,” he manages. 

For a second they just smile at each other, and Spencer has this swooping sensation in his stomach like he just missed a step, except the disorienting moment of uncontrollable vertigo feels _good_. 

“Sorry. I’m not used to — this is new to me.” Derek seems almost bashful now, looking down as he starts to toss the basketball from one hand to another. “Being able to admit when I’m… flirting. With a guy, I mean.” 

“I’m not used to being flirted with,” Spencer counters. He clears his throat and adds, “I don’t mind it.” 

Derek doesn’t move his head, but his eyes flick to Spencer. His smile is hopeful and happy and more than a little shy.

“Anybody ever tell you you look good in pink?”

“Huh?” Spencer frowns down at his sweater, which is… yeah, still definitely blue. 

“You’re blushing.” 

“Oh.” He presses his palms to his feverish-hot cheeks. “That makes sense.” 

This doesn’t _happen_ to Spencer. _Flirting_ doesn’t happen to Spencer, let alone flirting with someone who looks like _that_. There’s a bubble of reckless exhilaration swelling in his chest, helium-light, threatening to lift him off his feet. 

“So, how about it?” Derek asks. “Want to show me around?” 

Spencer nods, way too eagerly. “I could do that.” 

And that’s when his phone rings. 

He knows what it means, before he even looks at the screen, and all that giddy excitement drains away at once. 

He pulls out his phone: _Mom calling_. He doesn’t pick up yet; he doesn’t want to have this conversation within earshot of Derek. 

“I have to go,” Spencer says miserably. He sweeps his chess pieces carelessly into his bag, slings it over his shoulder, and gives Derek a helpless shrug. “I just — really need to go. Can we — tomorrow? I’ll be here. Tomorrow. Same time.”

“No worries,” Derek says, with a rueful little half-smile. Spencer turns, starts running, and he almost misses it when Derek says, “See you tomorrow, pretty boy.” 

Spencer doesn’t let himself look back, but he smiles. 

He flips open his phone on the very last ring and says, “Hey, Mom. I’m on my way.” 


	2. Friday, January 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now with more mysterious backstory! Also, don't take cookies from strangers.

Derek is playing it cool. 

Or... he _would_ be, if he could stop freaking the hell out. Whatever. 

He wants to be there early, just in case, and he hesitates. He _should_ grab his basketball — tryouts next week, he should be practicing as much as possible — but then he’d have to carry it around while they walk. He grabs his dog-eared copy of Slaughterhouse-Five instead. 

Spencer seems like a reader. Maybe he’ll be impressed. Derek doesn’t have much experience trying to impress adorably geeky college guys, but that seems like a good start. 

He looks at himself in the mirror one more time and thinks, _I can’t do this._

Then he shakes it off, like he’d shake off the nerves before a big game, and he gives his reflection a smile. What’s the worst that can happen, right? He embarrasses himself in front of a pretty boy, he avoids the park, he never sees the guy again. After the year he’s had, some good old-fashioned rejection would be a cake walk. 

Playing it cool. He can do this. 

He walks downstairs, locking up behind himself and leaving the spare key in its spot — its “hidden” spot, which is a totally obvious fake rock, but apparently here in the suburbs you can just _do_ that sort of thing. 

He walks, enjoying the sun, because January here feels like Chicago’s April. He’s not going to get used to this any time soon. 

Yeah. This was the right choice. 

_You deserve to do it on your own terms,_ his mom said, when she hugged him goodbye in the airport. _You can be whoever you want._

It didn’t feel like he was trying to be someone else yesterday, though. It felt like he was being himself. 

He didn’t realize it could be _easy_ like that, flirting with a guy, teasing and laughing and making Spencer smile. The stupid line came out like it was nothing. The fear only kicked in afterward. 

Derek knows he’s charming as fuck; he’s been making _girls_ smile like that since he was fourteen. And it’s not a skeevy thing — not even necessarily a sex thing — he just likes making people _smile_. He likes the way they stand a little straighter when you compliment their shirt, or the way they bring a hand to the back of their neck when you admire their hair, and the way one nice comment can startle someone right out of a bad day. 

Speaking of. 

He’s walking into the park, now, and there’s a girl walking toward him, blonde with pink streaks in her high pigtails, wearing thick neon pink glasses and several violently colorful patterns. She looks like Miss Frizzle’s ditzier sister. He kinda loves it. 

“I like your glasses,” he tells her cheerfully, as they come face-to-face on the path. 

Most people look startled, at first, when a stranger compliments them; they’re caught off-guard. Spencer looked like a deer in headlights, yesterday, when Derek caught his attention. 

Not this girl, though. Without missing a beat, she tosses back, “I like your face, sugar.” As their paths cross, she gives him a cheesy over-the-top wink. 

He retorts over his shoulder, “I ain’t that sweet, babygirl.” 

“I don’t believe you,” she sing-songs, and he’s laughing as they both continue on their way. 

Derek makes his way over to the same spot as yesterday, a round table between two curved benches. He pulls out his book and settles down to wait. Spencer isn’t there yet (which makes sense, considering that “same time” meant “two-ish” and it’s more like one-ish right now) but there are two older men playing chess at one of the tables nearby. Otherwise, it’s quiet: two women jogging, a few families on the playground, a guy throwing a ball for his dog. 

For a while, it’s actually a pretty awesome way to spend an afternoon. He doesn’t really notice how much time has passed until he shifts, stretching some cramped muscles. Then he checks his watch. 

They didn’t really set a definite time, though. It was vague. It’s not a big deal. 

Twenty minutes is a normal amount of time to be late. Derek has pulled that move on more than one first date — which begs the question: is this a date? — but he didn’t expect Spencer to be the type, somehow. 

He starts to get anxious around half past. He can think of a dozen excuses Spencer might use, but they’re all excuses he’s used himself, and they all boil down to _I don’t actually care_. 

He turns back to his book and tries to forget about the time.

At three, after re-reading the same page for the fourth time, he accepts that it’s a lost cause. He sets the book down on the bench and rests his face in his palms for a moment, taking a deep breath. 

Fuck. He is so _not_ playing it cool. 

There was something about Spencer that Derek can’t stop thinking about, and it’s not his bone structure or his eyes or the way his fingers looked as he fiddled with his chess piece. It was the way he blushed and stuttered, completely flustered and unable to hide it, and the way he brushed it off with, “I’m not used to being flirted with.” It was a _genuine_ reaction. He was being honest. He wasn’t trying to pose or posture or do any of the things Derek would’ve done to protect himself. 

It was the little crease between his eyebrows as he studied Derek intently — too intent to be polite — like Spencer was figuring him out, looking under the surface, seeing him in a way that people usually don’t, because most people don’t care enough to look. Most people miss what’s right in front of them. 

It was the way he sat, legs crossed, unpretentious and almost childlike. 

It was different. He wasn’t hiding anything. Derek’s been hiding a lot, these last few years. It was nice to be around someone who _wasn’t_ , and who made it look easy. 

And yeah, it was also his cheekbones and eyes and fingers and smile, because Derek is only fucking human. 

At quarter past, he starts to wonder what he did wrong. 

_Yeah, I’m flirting with you._

It was like a free-fall, the pause after the words, that frozen moment of _can’t take it back now_ and _this is going to change everything_. It’s the same hot-cold-terrifying-exhilarating shock he felt in the pause after he came out to his mom — same as the moment right before the jury gave their verdict — same as the moment he walked into school the next day. 

But it was different, because Spencer _smiled_ , all slow and shy. No betrayal, no creeping disgust, no pointed questions or even more pointed silence. 

That easy acceptance took Derek’s breath away. It felt like _freedom_. It felt like the moment the plane’s wheels lifted off the tarmac, the sickening lurch in his stomach, the blaze of something like defiance as he watched Chicago recede into the distance. 

Spencer smiled, and Derek felt like he could’ve ignored the laws of physics and flown away. If that was what “being out” usually feels like, he could see why people might want to do it. The moment of free-fall — _this is going to change everything_ — was worth it, for _that_. 

This, though? There’s something cold and leaden sitting in his chest, dragging him rudely back down to earth. He should just go. This is an embarrassing amount of time to wait around for some random guy. 

“Tell me who I need to punch,” somebody calls. “A face like yours should never be frowning, sweetness.” 

It’s the colorful girl from earlier, and Derek can’t help but smile at the way she stomps over and sits down across from him, matter-of-fact and brazen like they’ve known each other for years. 

“I was just waiting for you, babygirl,” he tells her, turning the charm up to eleven, and she rolls her eyes. 

“Penelope. The pleasure is all yours.” She holds her hand out for him to shake — her nails have tiny daisies painted all over them — and Derek kisses it instead. 

“Derek Morgan. Charmed, I’m sure.” 

“So who’s the girl that’s got you all tragic-looking?” she asks, and rummages in her massive bag for a minute before pulling out a tupperware of cookies. “Want one? They’re still warm. I was at my friend’s house, she needed some cheering up, we baked. I promise I’m not some creepy creep who’s going to lure you into their white van, oh my god, I just realized that I’m a complete stranger, and this is totally weird! But — cookies?” 

“I’d follow you anywhere, babygirl. And I will totally take a cookie.” He takes a bite of melty chocolate chips and moans. “Marry me?” 

“Alas, your heart belongs to another,” she says solemnly. “I know that face. Spill.” 

“Got stood up, but...” Derek chews as slowly as he can manage. “Wasn’t a girl.” 

He’s starting to get used to that free-fall sensation. It’s not so bad this time around. 

“Oh my god, I shouldn’t have assumed, I’m sorry! Men, right?” She heaves a dramatic sigh, and Derek tries to hide his own quiet sigh of relief. “The worst, I swear.” 

“No biggie. Other fish in the sea, right?” 

“Have another cookie.” 

“Woman, you are a _goddess_. I am so glad I met you.” 

“I’m glad you met me too, Derek Morgan.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this, please leave a comment! You can also find me over on tumblr: @there-must-be-a-lock


	3. Sunday, January 5

Spencer doesn’t want to stay inside a minute longer than he has to. He _can’t_ stay. He feels like his skin is a few sizes too small, and he’s itching with the discomfort of existing in his own body, and everything that’s rattling around inside his head is fizzing dangerously like bubbles in a shaken bottle of champagne. 

So he walks. 

This is what he’s done for over a decade now. In the last decade, Spencer has walked every street in this neighborhood more times than he wants to count. 

Spencer used to make up stories as he walked. When he was young, they were about the families who lived inside, the snatches of other people’s lives he saw as he passed. Later, he used to picture _himself_ in those houses. He tried to imagine being someone else; who would he be, if he’d grown up in a different home, with a different family? Who would he be, if he was normal? 

He tries not to think about that any more. There’s no point being jealous of someone who doesn’t exist. 

He turns onto Lake Road, and then he almost turns around. 

This is creepy. Isn’t it? It’s creepy as hell. More importantly, why should he care whether Derek wants to see him? For all he knows, Derek didn’t show up at the park either. They’re never going to see each other again. There’s no reason for Spencer to care. 

He _does_ care, though. 

The flip side of it is: they’re never going to see each other again. What does he have to lose? 

There’s something liberating about that thought. Derek doesn’t know him, and better yet, he never saw Spencer get shut in a locker. Derek wasn’t there when Charlie Hankel stole all Spencer’s clothes while he showered after gym class. Derek doesn’t remember any of the things Spencer would like to forget. 

Aside from Emily, everyone in Spencer’s class has known him for almost four years now. They all know him a little too well. 

Still, his heart is pounding uncomfortably as he passes #8 (big, sturdy mailbox, "the Hotchners”) and #10 (cheerful yellow mailbox, no name) and finally stops at #12 (small, tidy dark green mailbox, with “MORGAN” on the front). He almost turns around there, and then again (three more times) as he walks up the concrete path to the front door. 

This feels reckless. Spencer’s not sure what got into him today; he’s never reckless. 

He rings the doorbell and bounces on the balls of his feet. It’s one of those doorbells that actually chimes out a little tune, and he can hear it, muffled, inside the house. 

Nobody’s home, and that’s fine. It’s fine. Spencer’s just gonna go — well, he’s not going _home_ , but he’s leaving. It’s _fine_. 

But he hears footsteps, and someone is shouting, “Coming, sorry, I thought you said two!”

Then the door is flung open, and Derek is standing there, and his smile drops when he sees who it is. Spencer’s stomach feels like he’s falling from the top of a very tall building. 

“Um. Hi?” His voice cracks. He raises one hand in an awkward wave, cheeks burning, and realizes he has no idea what to say. “I just — I figured — um. I wanted to say sorry? Assuming… you even showed up on Friday, which, for all I know you didn’t, but. Believe me, I really _really_ wanted to show up on Friday. And… I don’t know what to say.” His voice trails off and then he admits, “I didn’t plan this far ahead.” 

“Yeah, I showed up on Friday,” Derek says quietly. He looks… unsteady, almost. Not sure what he feels. 

Spencer looks down at his ratty Chucks and repeats, “I’m sorry.” There’s a long pause, and he can’t bring himself to look up again. “I’ll just— I’ll just go, sorry, this was—”

He’s already turning around when Derek laughs and asks, “Really? You gonna ditch me _again_?” 

“Oh.” Spencer’s so startled he almost loses his balance pivoting to face him again. 

Derek’s smiling. It’s a different smile than the one he had on when he answered the door, and it’s tugging at his mouth slowly like he’s not sure why it’s there, but he’s smiling. “You wanna come in?”

“Oh.” Spencer blinks. “Sure.” 

There’s music playing from upstairs, hip-hop with a heavy bass beat, and Derek tells him, “Hang on, let me grab that.” He takes the stairs two at a time, and Spencer looks around bemusedly. 

The house is so… _normal_. It’s clean without being overwhelmingly so, and it’s full of light, and all the furniture looks like it was bought new, from a catalog. It’s so painfully normal that Spencer’s stomach twists up in knots. This is exactly the sort of life he used to imagine for himself. 

What is he doing here? 

“Hey, you okay?” Derek asks, as he comes back down the stairs. 

Spencer forces a smile. “Fine, just — having a weird day.” 

“My auntie and uncle are at church, so I figured I’d crank up the volume while I could,” Derek says sheepishly, holding a little Bluetooth speaker that was — presumably — the source of the music. “What sort of stuff do you like?” 

Spencer shrugs. Most of the music he knows comes from his mom, and he can’t really think about her right now without that cold clenching feeling around his ribcage. 

Maybe Derek can see how out of place Spencer feels here, because he leads the way out the back door, over to a big rope hammock strung up between two slim trees in the back of the neat lawn, and he falls back on it almost carelessly, sprawling out while still scrolling through something on the phone. 

“What were you listening to before?” Spencer asks. 

“Nas. You know him?” He grins up at Spencer, that bright-white dazzling grin, and Spencer perches next to him on the hammock. 

“Not at all, but… we can listen to that, if you want.” 

Derek sets the speaker on the ground, loud enough to hear but not too loud to talk over, and Spencer listens curiously as he lays back, hands folded on his stomach, looking up at the clear blue sky through the leaves. 

“When I stand somebody up, I don’t usually come to their house after to apologize,” Derek says tentatively. “Which… makes me think you might actually have a good excuse.” 

Spencer turns his head, and Derek is mirroring his position, looking right back at him. Their arms are just a couple inches apart, and Spencer feels acutely aware of his body. 

“I sorta had a… family crisis,” Spencer tells him. “My mom — we had to go out of town, and we didn’t get back until this morning.” 

He braces himself for questions, but Derek just half-smiles and nods slightly, looking back up at the sky. “Listen to this bit right here.” He kicks his foot idly, and the hammock rocks back and forth, lazy and gentle. 

“That’s a remarkably complex internal rhyme,” Spencer says, and Derek laughs out loud. 

“A+ literary analysis.” 

Spencer blushes. He’s dealt with a lot of teasing in his life, but this is so, so different. Derek’s elbow nudges against his, and when Spencer turns his head, he sees a broad smile that gives him butterflies. 

“I like it,” he says shyly. 

They’re quiet for a moment, listening. All that strange restlessness has faded, and Spencer likes it here; he likes the fence that surrounds most of the yard, hiding them from view, and he likes the pressure of the rope digging into his back, and he likes the way Derek looks at him. 

They listen in silence until the end of the song, and then Derek asks, “What’s your favorite book?” 

“I don’t know if I can choose a favorite. What’s yours?” 

He says it almost sheepishly: “Mother Night. Vonnegut.” 

“That’s an interesting choice,” Spencer says, thinking it over. 

“How do you mean?” 

“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be,” Spencer quotes. 

Derek makes a face and looks up at the sky. “What, you gonna psychoanalyze me now?” 

“Why? What do you _think_ it says about you?” Spencer counters, before he can think better of it. 

Derek laughs and says, begrudgingly, “That maybe I can identify with that. Pretending for the sake of self-preservation.” 

“I don’t know you all that well, but you don’t seem — I don’t know. You don’t seem like the kind of person who would need to pretend.” He wonders if it’s too much, if he’s being presumptuous. Derek looks self-conscious now. 

“But doesn’t everybody do that, to some extent? I mean… trying to fit in. Everybody pretends a little bit.” 

“I don’t, really,” Spencer tells him. “I wish I could, but… I don’t really know how to be anybody else.” There’s a note of bitterness in it that he can’t quite hide. 

“Is it weird that I’m jealous?” 

“You really shouldn’t be,” Spencer tells him. He mulls that over for a second and adds, “I do pretend when it comes to… how I feel. I don’t like showing when I’m upset. It doesn’t work the same way, though, because pretending I’m fine really doesn’t ever make me fine.” 

Derek snorts. “Yeah, I feel you.” 

“I imagine who I could be. I imagine what my life could be like somewhere else, or as someone else,” Spencer admits, which isn’t something he’d usually just _say_ like that, but talking to Derek doesn’t seem to have the same rules as talking to most people. “It’s not the same as pretending, but... “ 

“Huh.” 

Spencer feels strange — oddly vulnerable and raw — and maybe Derek does too, because he’s got a soft, wistful expression on his face when he turns his head. They look at each other for a moment. Spencer knows he must be blushing. 

Then Derek’s phone rings, loud and startling through the speaker, and Derek seems to shake himself before fumbling with the buttons. 

“Hey,” he says, and pauses. “Oh — no, that’s fine. Cool. See you soon.” 

Which sounds like Spencer’s cue to go. He doesn’t really _want_ to. 

He sits up, tucking his hair behind his ears. “I should —” 

“My friend,” Derek says, and he actually sounds disappointed. “A friend is coming over, sorry, I didn’t — you could stay, if you want?” 

Derek’s been here for how long now? And he already has more friends in the area than Spencer’s made in years? 

“Nah, it’s fine, I should get back to —” _To my life. Because this isn’t mine, as much as I’d like it to be._ “— home.” 

“Can we hang out again sometime?” Derek asks. The hammock is sagging in the middle, where their weight is pulling it down, and when Derek sits up they slide closer, the sides of their legs press together, warm and distracting. 

“You’re staying here?” Spencer asks, more breathless than he’d like. 

Derek smiles. “Yeah, for a while.” 

Before Spencer can ask questions, Derek’s passing him the phone, and he taps his number in carefully. 

“That’s me.” He clears his throat. 

“I’ll text you,” Derek says, typing, and a second later, Spencer feels his own phone vibrate in his pocket. 

Maybe it’s all the talk about pretending — maybe if Spencer _pretends_ to be confident, he will be, someday — maybe it’s the recklessness that brought him here in the first place — _something_ possesses Spencer, and in a moment of courage (or stupidity) he leans over and kisses Derek, lips brushing the corner of his mouth, right where his smile curves up. 

Spencer’s so shocked at his own daring that he can’t really take it in; he gets the briefest impression of _soft_ , and then he’s pulling back, ice-cold with the adrenaline rush. 

They both freeze for a second, blinking at each other. Just as Derek shifts, opening his mouth to say something, Spencer jumps to his feet. 

“Bye,” he chokes out, and turns, fighting the urge to run. 

“See you soon, pretty boy,” Derek calls after him. 

Spencer’s hands are shaking as he walks quickly around the side of the house. He stares intently down at his shoes, because he’s not going to do something like a little Snoopy dance of joy until he’s sure he’s on the next block and fully out of view. 

He almost collides with someone on the sidewalk; he gets an impression of blonde hair and pink shoes as she squeaks with alarm and jumps out of his way. 

“Sorry,” Spencer says breathlessly, without stopping. 

She chirps out a cheerful, “No biggie!” 

When Spencer looks back, she’s ringing the Morgans’ doorbell, and there’s this awful bitter thing in the back of his throat as he realizes that that’s Derek’s “friend.”

It makes perfect sense, though. What did he expect? 

Spencer swallows his envy and keeps walking. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this, please let me know! 
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr: @there-must-be-a-lock


End file.
